


Two Candles

by Kyonomiko



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-12 23:29:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12970788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyonomiko/pseuds/Kyonomiko
Summary: Draco has himself a bit of a pout during the Ministry Holiday Gala.  Somewhere, his friend, Hermione, is no doubt having a grand time with his partner.  But Christmas is a time for surprises, and Draco might have one before night's end.





	Two Candles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LightofEvolution](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightofEvolution/gifts).



The annual Ministry gala for the holidays is, as ever, a garish and overdone affair. Always held on Christmas Eve, it is a grand and ostentatious gathering of the Wizarding world’s Who’s Who. Seven years on the other side of the Second Wizarding War, and the notorious Draco Malfoy has been able to avoid them all but twice. The first was five years previous and his first year as an Auror. Potter, his superior at the Ministry, thought it was important he be seen as a part of the establishment. Now, here he is again, trapped into this circus due to the location. The Minister himself had approached Draco about using Malfoy Manor for the event, and Draco had been unable to refuse the ever imposing Kingsley Shacklebolt the request.

He finds himself scanning his own entrance hall and wishing he were anywhere else. Being an Auror has been rewarding enough, giving him purpose and a feeling of redemption after the dark years of the war. His father never understood his need to feel cleansed. Lucius, for all his own surprising reformation, is more than happy to slither back into high society with as little apology as possible.

Narcissa Malfoy, doting mother that she is, had supported her son’s career decision fully and continues to do so years later. It was her support that made this particular evening as lavish as it is. She had dipped in to the Malfoy coffers to supplement the budget afforded by the Ministry, guaranteeing a party like which the Wizarding world hasn’t seen in over a decade.

Their grand ballroom has been lavishly decorated in so much tinsel and greens, it looks like a muggle tree farm exploded. The huge glass doors have been opened to the veranda and grounds beyond, a warming charm keeping the guests cozy even as they venture amongst the hedgerows, fountains, and topiaries. Draco, for his part, is completely over the entire thing, having grown up forced into events such as this. The food is too rich, the music too loud, and the guests entirely too judgmental for his liking. More than one Ministry official, foreign dignitary, or aging Order memory has glanced in his direction, gaze dragging down his arm as if they might see the remnants of his Mark burning through his robes. He has worked hard to get where he is, but no one lets him forget his dark history and checkered past.

The most consistent source of reminder is his partner, Ron Weasley. It is hard to forget where he comes from when faced daily with one of his oldest rivals. The tosser had been assigned to him right out of his training and it had been a nightmare ever since, though not for the reason Draco would have guessed.

The first few months were predictable. Weasley was defensive, holding a grudge from their younger years that Draco had to concede was deserved. However, as time passed and their work kept them in close proximity, they reached a strange camaraderie between one another. After a year, that odd relationship started to include Harry Potter, and the three now enjoy Quidditch games at The Burrow every Sunday with Ron’s brother George, his wife Angelina, and their sister (who Draco still refers to as the She-Weasel, but with friendly affection).

No, the issue with Weasley is that Draco, maybe three years ago, fell completely in love with Ron’s girlfriend: Hermione know-it-all Granger. The little swot has sneaked herself into the crevices of Draco’s life, finding places where he didn’t know he needed someone, and yet somehow he did.

She first intruded into his life when she created a book club with only the two of them for members, so they could discuss a book once every week. Their taste in literature is eerily compatible, and she certainly couldn’t share that passion with her lover. Ron is hardly illiterate, but the idea of ‘reading for pleasure’ makes him screw up his face in confusion and distaste; as if you just announced a fetish for Hagrid tickling your feet while donning a frilly pink dress.

Once the book club became casually official, she moved on to engaging Draco into weekly lunches. Wednesday is the day Ron helps George at his shop, leaving Hermione without a lunch date. So every week, she rides the lift down from her post at Magical Creatures to ‘pick up’ Draco and take him on some muggle adventure. He never would have imagined that many restaurants even existed in muggle London, but it seems like there is always something new to try, and they rarely visit the same location more than a few times.

Firmly invaded into his Wednesday afternoons, Tuesday nights, and Sunday evenings ( when she plays spectator to Quidditch with the Weasley’s), Hermione somehow stole into his Monday mornings with a delivery of muggle coffee. “It’s from this place right by my flat so it’s really no trouble. I can just grab you one when I get mine.”

Draco had glanced briefly at his partner, seated at the desk on the other side of their shared office, and noted the wizard wasn’t even paying attention. Noticing the look, Hermione had explained, “Ron hates coffee. I promise, this one really was for you.”

“She’s right. Can’t stand the stuff.” Weasley hadn’t even looked up, continuing to work on whatever report was probably late and he was hoping to slip in to someone’s incoming mail before they realized it wasn’t finished.

Draco had accepted the cup, and, just like that, they had another “thing”.

Their quad-weekly meetings have continued for longer than he can even remember. Occasionally, extra events add even more frequent engagements. The worst being a particular Friday night, just this past May, that Hermione had suggested a “double date”. She and Ron, along with Draco and a simpering pureblood heiress named Aletta, had dined together upon Hermione’s insistence. Draco’d had absolutely no interest in his date, but refused to be relegated to third wheel status and chose the most empty-headed, but glamorous and well-endowed, witch he could find.

Aletta had hung off his arm all night and batted her lashes. Though it had made him a little ill to do it, he had shamelessly flirted back, keeping a steady eye on Granger to see if she even noticed. He’d felt a bit guilty, knowing just how bad he had it for his mate’s nigh-fiancee. Even so, he had been unable to stop himself from a little sliver of joy when Hermione had narrowed her eyes, watching his date run her fingers up his thigh.

Now, it’s another Christmas alone, and Draco is watching from the sidelines. He is, both, anticipating the arrival of, but also dreading the entrance of, Hermione. He is excited to see her, knowing she will look beautiful, her holiday-loving smile lighting the room. Yet, he also knows she will have her hand settled in the crook of Ron’s arm, and that makes him sick to consider.

He’s nursing what might be an inadvisable tumbler of scotch (inadvisable given it is tumbler number four at a rather early part of the evening), when he sees the object of his affection enter the room. She’s as stunning as he imagined, decked out in burgundy for the season, much more elegant than the expected Gryffindor red, her hair tumbling past her shoulders and her eyes darkened with kohl and shimmering in delight. She sees him and beams, making her way to him quickly. Suddenly Draco is feeling rather morose and settles into a good old-fashioned pout.

“Happy Christmas, Draco.” She tucks a curl behind her ear and takes a sip of the thick, milky drink in her hand, licking her lips in pleasure after she swallows. “This is divine.”

“House of Black eggnog recipe,” he grunts out, feeling quite sorry for himself in the wake of another Christmas alone filled with unattainable, unrequited love.

“Well, it’s delicious,” she affirms. “I’ll have to compliment your mother when I see her.”

Draco gives a barely noticeable shrug and pans his gaze over the crowd. When he looks back, Hermione is eyeing him with a mix of expectation and trepidation, his black mood more than obvious. “I need to check on the elves. It seems the crab puffs are running low.” He leaves her standing there, looking dumbstruck, as he runs away. Draco has been accused of being a coward before. He’s learned not to fight against his own nature.

Sneaking through the servants’ corridors, Draco emerges into the kitchens. Not because he could give a flying fuck about crab puffs, of course, but in order to avoid the revelry that extends into many of the manor’s entertaining rooms. He spies a chilled bottle of Perrier Jouet, open and just about to be divvied up into a tray of crystal flutes, and snags it while the elves are otherwise occupied with their many tasks.

Carrying his prize, Draco finds a hidden nook, merely a coat closet by design, but complete with a small sofa and enough room for at least six people to comfortably converse.

The lighting is thankfully low, nothing glaring into his half-drunken eyes. The entire room is lit by exactly two candles. One is settled in to a lantern with intricate metal filigree, setting shadows against the glow, and the other in a wall sconce, set high and to the right of the door. Draco has always liked this low-lit room, often hiding as a child, playing games and living fantasies of caverns and abandoned buildings, rife with the danger that lurks in the dark. The two candles kept any real fear away for the small boy, so he could fully pretend he was brave.

Here, he drinks until the bottle of Champagne is nearly gone, letting the silence coax his pouting into a downright tantrum. He tips the bottle toward the wall sconce, offering a silent “cheers” to the flickering flame within. He is feeling a kinship with the lonely source of light, its glow reaching across the room to twine with the ring of gold emitted from the other of the pair. Barely reaching, just brushing at the edges. The more he drinks, the more he thinks the second candle, safe in her beautiful filigreed armour, is just taunting the one in the sconce, pretending to be oblivious when she fucking knows that candle is a lonely sod, drinking by himself in a closet on Christmas Eve.

Lantern-candle is such a tease.

Within a short time, he has half a mind to just lay down on the cramped sofa and fall asleep. Fuck the party. Fuck the ministry. Fuck Potter and Weasley and the Golden-fucking-Trio and their stupid, beautiful third component. He’s all but settled in, crossing his arms over his chest petulantly and closing his eyes, when a POP sounds throughout the acoustics of the small room.

“Master, Draco?”

“Ugh… yes, Pipsy? What is it?”

“Master Nott is looking for you, sir. He says Pipsy is to tell Master Draco he owing him a dance.”

Draco snorts. Theo. He supposes he should make time for his only remaining childhood friend. Crabbe being dead, Goyle being a hopeless nitwit, unable to let go of the philosophy of purity, and Blaise having run off with some halfblood bird to Italy, Theodore Nott, son of a Death Eater but notorious avoider of the Mark, reminds Draco of his roots while never hindering his growth and evolution.

Unfortunately, he’s also a bit of an annoying prat.

“Where is he?”

“North ballroom, Master.”

He groans. Of course he is. Right in the middle of the main attraction. No doubt the dancing has already started and Hermione is nuzzled up against her red-headed boyfriend, whispering in his over-sized ears and clinging to his gangly frame.

“I’ll go see the prick.” As an afterthought, he finishes, “Thanks, Pipsy.” Granger has made a point of making him show his gratitude to his elves. Just one of the many ways she has battled her way into his life, even though she has the nerve not to be an intimate part of it.

“Will Master be wanting the bottle?” The elf is pointing to the Champagne, leaned against the cushions of the sofa.

It only has about a glass left and Draco shakes his head, thinking maybe he’s had enough when the room spins briefly upon standing. “I think I’m finished. You can dispose of the rest.”

The elf takes the bottle and, with another loud POP, not a terribly pleasant sound bouncing around Draco’s fuzzy head, he’s gone.

When he reaches the ballroom he finds two things: Theo Nott chatting up the ever-lovely Daphne Greengrass, and Hermione Granger twirling away and laughing, Ron Weasley’s arms wrapped around her.

Making his way to his friend, he nods in greeting. “Nott. Daphne.”

Both Theo and Daphne do a double take and exchange a glance. They greet him and, shortly thereafter, Daphne takes her leave. “Find me later, Theo. I’ll take you up on a dance.” She winks and walks away toward a gaggle of other young witches, immediately falling in to their conversation.

“You look like hell,” Theo says with a raised brow and cheeky grin. “What, did you shag some witch in a closet? Was it before or after you fell in to a whiskey barrel?”

Draco supposes he might look a bit more rumpled than he’d thought and attempts to straighten his posture and his robes.

“Lovely to see you as always, Nott. Can I refill your eggnog? Get you something to eat? Apparate you to the middle of nowhere and leave you for dead?”

Theo just laughs and takes a deep drink of the aforementioned nog. “Not shagged then. You’re too hostile. Maybe that’s what you need then, eh? Anyone here catch your eye? Plenty of pretty little witches about.”

Draco, who has not had intimate relations with a witch in over two years, ignores his brash friend and busies himself selecting a petit four from a dessert tray passing by via a complicated Levitation charm.

“Looking to make a move on the Greengrass estate?”

Shrugging, Theo doesn’t deny it. “I’ve always had a good time with Daphne. Now that she’s over with Flint, why not give it a go? I mean, if she’s interested.”

Looking across the ballroom to find Daphne sneaking subtle glances at Theo (maybe not so subtle), Draco watches her as he says, “Oh, I’d say she’s interested. Just don’t wait too long. Something tells me she has a dance card for days.”

On cue, Adrian Pucey reaches the witch in question and bows low, offering his hand. She hesitates but accepts and follows him to the dance floor.

Theo is watching as well but looks unaffected. “I’ll just have to step up my charm. Once I’m done helping you wallow in whatever pity you’ve found yourself of course.”

“I’m not wallowing,” he pouts, absolutely mired in petulance.

His tone makes Theo chuckle and offer a perfunctory, “Of course you’re not. Regular bastion of good cheer tonight; that’s Draco Malfoy to a tee.”

Draco looks for the next Levitating tray and, this time, snags a tumbler of whiskey and settles back into the pity portion of his own party, all the while watching Hermione smile and laugh, throwing her head back in delight at whatever Weasley is saying. Fuckers, the lot of them.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The ballroom is less populated by the wee hours of the morning. Draco believes it might be around three, but tumbler number eight made it hard to be sure. By now, he’s downright pissed and ready for all these miserable bastards to get out of his house. Theo disappeared with Greengrass about thirty minutes before, and Potter made excuses to vanish with Pansy Parkinson, bizarre as that seemed. Lucius and Narcissa are hosting a small contention of their society friends on the east Veranda, presumably intending to greet the dawn in a couple of hours’ time.

And, of course, there’s Granger. She tried to catch his eye a few times but he resolutely ignored her. She had danced with Weasley, of course, then accepted offers from Neville Longbottom, Shacklebolt, Adrian Pucey (disgruntled as he was after Daphne refused his request for another dance), at least two foreign Ministry liasons, and even Theo, the disloyal prick, when Draco was distracted by Potter.

She vanished at some point, probably off shagging Weasley and basking in true love or whatever such shite. Draco is nestled back in a corner, nursing his whiskey and resolutely ignoring the stragglers still in his home.

“Draco?”

He hadn’t heard her approach. His gaze, low to the ground, first finds her feet. They are bare, her toes peeking out from beneath the hem of her gown. Her soft steps had made it easy for her to sneak up on a trained Auror. He’s sure that must be it, not that he is too drunk for his sharp senses to work properly.

“Granger.”

He doesn’t call her that much anymore. He has called her Hermione for almost four years, even before he realized he was falling for her. They were good friends by that point, spending so much time on shared hobbies and in deep discussion. Calling her by her given name had seemed something hard earned, and he’d been eager to accept it. It solidified their relationship into something real and important, and he’d been grateful to know her well enough to take the liberty.

Now, it just seems so useless. Such an utter waste of time. Doesn’t she have a sodding ring yet? Is Weasley ever going to pull the trigger? It would serve the tosser right if she just left, but apparently she’s just far too in love for such a thing. Bitterness is swirling around Draco’s muddy thoughts and he barely registers the hurt on her face.

“Did I do something wrong tonight?” She sounds a little wounded but Draco is feeling petty just now. He’s wounded too, after all. Plenty of wounds all around.

“Not a thing. I hope you had a lovely time. You certainly seemed to be enjoying yourself and your little fan club.”

Her eyes narrow and her face takes on that dangerous expression he’s seen focused on so many lackeys at the Ministry who dared stand in the way of her objectives. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, but I’m going to let it slide because you are obviously hammered.”

“Ten points to Gryffindor,” he sneers. “Whatever tipped you off? No wonder everyone says how bloody brilliant you are.”

She straightens then, seeming to come to some decision and says, “Well, then. I suppose that’s enough for tonight. I’ll see you Monday.”

She’s gliding from the room on her stupid soft feet, her luxurious fucking curls swinging down her back, shoes clutched tightly in her white-knuckled hand.

At this point, Draco is itching for a fight. He follows her and, once they are out of the ballroom and away from any remaining guests, he bites out. “Why Monday? Not Sunday for Quidditch? Not going to cheer on your lover from the sidelines this week? Weasley will be crushed, of course, but I’m sure you can kiss it better that night-“

She rounds on him, mid-sentences, and hisses out into the dim hallway. “What is your fucking problem? Did… did Ron say something?” What had started as ire, a heated expression on her face, falters almost immediately and she bites he lip, obvious nerves taking over her countenance. “I told Ron not to say anything, but, of course, Ron, he always thinks he’s helping. I love him but, he can be so thick… What did he say? Did he… did he say something about me and… I mean, in regards to… to you?”

She’s stammering and unsure and there is something vulnerable that douses Draco’s vitriol into little more than smoldering rubble. “I haven’t spoken to him tonight. He was too busy making sure the whole room got a sickening look at your perfect relationship. As usual,” he mutters the last.

Now she’s looking at him strangely and it makes him as nervous as she seems. The liquor coursing through his blood, he’s not sure how much of the situation he’s understanding properly.

“So… Ron didn’t say anything to you tonight? About me? About… about us?”

“I think at some point he asked if we had ‘any of those little beef wellingtons’ left, but otherwise, no. I spent the evening finding the inside bottom of a bottle. You’ll be proud to know I found at least two.” He sways just then, standing still, which seems to punctuate the point.

“Merlin, Draco, how much have you had?”

He thinks, distracted from his anger and his hurt by the question. “Well, I started with scotch, just a few glasses. Then I had that Champagne, of course, and the Ogden’s with Theo. Oh, and Potter suggested something muggle from Greece. Tasted like a licorice whip.”

“Ouzo,” she offers. He can’t remember if that’s right, so he just shrugs.

“Oh, and that one glass of Vodka. Or was it two? No, it was definitely three. Three glasses. But, you know, with lime, so that helps cut the alcohol.”

She’s looking at him horrified now, and all he can do is smirk at her. The affect is lessened when he staggers again, but straightens quickly and assumes it was smooth enough she might not have noticed.

“You’re fucking obliterated,” she breathes out. “Come on. I’m putting you to bed.”

“Oh, yes please, Granger,” he says with a leer and a lot of sarcasm.

She ignores his tone, loaded with innuendo, and calls out, “Pipsy!”

The elf is there in a blink. “Missy Hermione?” The relationship between Hermione and Draco’s elf had been questionable at first. A staunch supporter of Creature rights, Hermione had trouble reconciling her beliefs against an elf who is genuinely happy to serve. Over time, they developed an understanding, both sides compromising for peace. Hermione stopped refusing to use his services, and Pipsy accepted her praise and gratitude politely. It doesn’t seem such a thing would be so difficult, but the arrangement took two years to perfect.

Draco is lost in that revelry when he snaps back, Pipsy and Hermione looking at him expectantly. “I’m sorry, what?” He shifts his weight and pitches forward, right into the witch of his dreams and nightmares.

She catches him, his greater stature nearly knocking her down. Once he is set to rights, she clears her throat. “I said you need to take some Sober Up and rest for a bit. Do you have some in your rooms?”

He considers it, unsure. Did he have any left after that bender he went on with Theo when his father was Kissed in Azkaban? Theo didn’t miss the bastard, he’d said, but it’s still hard to wake up in a world in which you have a father, and then go to sleep an orphan. “I think so. A dose at least.”

“Right then. Pipsy, can you fetch that potion please? Take it to Master’s suite? Come on, Draco.” Pipsy pops away without hesitation.

“Are you trying to get me into bed, Granger?” He’s back to smarmy innuendo and watches her grimace as they start to take the stairs, her hand on his back.

“Why are you calling me that?”

“I’ve called you that since we were children,” he answers back. He’s drunk but he knows perfectly well what she means.

“No,” she corrects, “you called me that when we were still children. Now, you call me Hermione… or at least a mildly affectionate ‘swot’ or ‘bleeding Gryffindor’.”

The look she’s giving him is one of concern. He chooses to ignore it and goes back to watching his footing. They’ve reached the second floor now, and take the hall to the west wing. Draco’s private quarters, the guest rooms for his personal acquaintances, his hobby potions laboratory, and a formal parlour, are all housed here. His parent’s suite and their various personal rooms are now behind them, on the east end of the house.

Beside him, Hermione yawns just as they reach the sleeping accommodations, and it occurs to Draco, upset as he is, it would be rude not to make an offer as host. “You can sleep there, if you want.” He gestures to the room across the corridor from his own just as he pushes open the heavy oak that leads to his bedroom. He stumbles over the threshold. Draco doesn’t even bother to close the door; just walks across the floor, toeing off his shoes and unfastening his robes as he does.

When he reaches the bed, he falls face-first on top of the duvet. Somehow, closing his eyes and laying prone has the effect of highlighting just how very drunk he feels. The room is spinning around him, he just knows it, even as he lays still. Stupid, sneaky room.

“Merlin, Draco…” He hears a huff somewhere in the cavern of his brain and remembers Hermione must still be lingering in the door frame. Didn’t he give her a room? He can practically hear her thinking. And judging… definitely judging. Which is much louder than thinking. Let her, then. She can just be a Miss McJudgypants for all he cares.

He thinks to say something to the effect of all that, but instead just murmurs a questioning, “Hmm?” The sound is muffled against the material his face is smashed against.

Draco, in hindsight, thinks he drifted to sleep after that. He’s vaguely aware of a shift of the mattress and then small hands are pushing him onto his back. “Drink this,” comes a bossy voice that can only be his Hermione.

Blinking his eyes open barely a slit, he sees her leaning over him, her curls a curtain trapping their faces close. A vial is held to his lips and he licks them on instinct. Her eyes follow the movement.

When he doesn’t make any further move, she says again, “Drink, Draco, or you’ll have one hell of a hangover and no grand adventure to justify it.” He sees her smile then and is aware in the recesses of his mind she is trying to make him laugh. To cut through the tension and awkward mood his inebriated state has created.

He cranes his neck, lifting his head from the bed beneath him, and allows her to slowly poor a foul tasting liquid down his throat. The affect is instantaneous. Muggles (quite ironically from Draco’s perspective) say that quick, efficient things work ‘like magic’ and he understands this is one of those things they would reference. His head clears, and, suddenly, he’s fully aware that he is lying on his back with his partner’s girlfriend poised above him, her body close enough he could pull her down atop him with little effort.

She meets his eyes and Draco sees something there he’s not seen from anyone in a long time. She’s studying his face, taking shallow breathes, and looking very much like she’s waiting for him to pounce. Like she’s hoping for it.

Draco has a lot of things, wealth, fame, and charm amongst them, but what he lacks in great quantity is willpower. He reaches a hand to cup her face and watches, transfixed, as her lips part on an inhale, before sliding his fingers back to her neck to wind into her hair.

“Feel better?” She asks quietly, biting down on her lower lip.

He starts to agree but then thinks better of it and answers honestly. “Not particularly. It seems I may have made a right fool of myself.”

Is she closer now? He would swear she has leaned in further, her chest brushing his, the satin of her gown whispering against the texture of his formal shirt. “You didn’t,” she assures him. “We’ve all been there. I’m just glad you were home and safe.”

“Hermione…”

He doesn’t know how to finish and she seems to realize that. After a moment to allow him to say whatever it might have been, she interjects, “Back to Hermione, is it? Not cross at me after all then?”

Draco drops his hand from her face, realizing how intimate this all is, the reality of their relationship crashing back. “I wasn’t cross,” he tells her, as unaffected as possible. “You might have noticed, I was relatively trashed for most of the night.”

“Well, good,” she determines. “That’s good because…” She trails off, her gaze darting around his face. He’s having trouble meeting her eyes. “You know, it occurs to me, it’s quite late.”

That brings his attention back and distracts him from his melancholy with mild confusion. “It is…” He hedges, unsure as to her point.

“So, since it’s late… technically, it’s Christmas.” He watches her tuck a curl behind her ear and then she leans in, far too close to be strictly friendly or innocent. Before he can react, her lips are brushing his as she says, “Happy Christmas, Draco,” and then pillows his lips with hers.

It’s not a lude kiss. There is no tongue or teeth or heady passion, but nor is it resolutely chaste. Draco’s eyes close and squeeze shut, the muscles in his face straining not to react to her attentions. How can she possibly mean this? Is she torturing him on purpose? He has known her and loved her in spite of her numerous flaws. She is haughty and condescending, she can be prideful and stubborn, and never would anyone accuse Hermione Granger of having an abundance of patience. However, he’s never known her to be cruel. Can she possibly not know at this point how she has been slowly shredding his heart for years? He’s tried to never be obvious in his attentions, but surely the woman has some inkling as to his desires.

Still, torn apart by hurt and anger and desolate resignation as he is, he loves this witch deeply and wishes only her happiness. As kindly as he can, he pulls his lips away and answers, “Happy Christmas, Hermione. You should probably be headed home.”

“I thought you said I could stay here.” Searching his gaze, he feels like there is more she’s not saying and he is cautious in his response, testing the waters between them.

“You can, of course. You’re always welcome. I just… I thought maybe Weasley would be waiting. Or you’re expected early at The Burrow.”

“I’m not going to the Weasley’s this year. Ron and I thought it would be best.”

Now Draco is confused and moves to sit up, uncomfortable having a conversation with her nearly laying on top of him. Though, predictably, it’s disappointing to lose the feel of her skin and her form pressed against him. “Why? Is there… Hermione, is everything alright? Molly and Arthur…?” A thousand possibilities run through his head as to why the Weasley’s wouldn’t gather for the holidays as they do every year. Are Arthur and Molly not well? Is one sibling or another having marriage problems? Perhaps George is having a relapse with depression at the loss of Fred. It wouldn’t be the first time the former twin went through a rough time, especially during the Yule season.

“No, nothing terrible. We just thought it would be harder for everyone to accept the breakup if everything went on as usual.”

“Breakup? Who?” It’s as he feared. Has Weaslette been dumped by that Puddlemere beater she was dating? Surely not Bill and his Veela bride…

She blinks at him and answers carefully. “Me… I mean, me and Ron of course.”

“Wait.” She does. She waits… but he has no idea what comes next. Eventually she tries to rescue him.

“You didn’t know?”

The silence of the room expands around him, filling the void between them until it erupts, Draco shattering right along with it.

He bolts off the bed and looms over her, conflicting emotions rattling around his head and his heart. “What the fuck, Granger, No! No I didn’t fucking know! When the hell did his happen!? Why were you hanging off the wanker all bleeding night?!”

She stands as well and crosses her arms. “He is not a… wanker,” she finishes with a wrinkle of her nose. Draco is fully aware she detests the word. Told him once it was terribly common. He’d thought it adorable she would presume to tell the wealthiest pureblood in Britain what was ‘common’ and had loved her all the more for it. “He’s a very good man, and you’d do well to remember that. He’s being decent about this whole thing.”

He starts to respond, pointer finger facing the heavens like he’s going to make a doozy of a point, but she plows over him. “And another thing, Draco Malfoy, I was not hanging all over him. We danced twice and had some wine because he’s still my friend! And he always will by my friend, you great ferrety git, even if I am in love with someone else!”

Draco’s heart stops beating in his chest and the wind leaves his proverbial sails. She’s in love with someone else? Already?! That just makes his insides crumble. Could he have missed his opening with her before he knew it came? “You’re seeing someone?” His voice sounds dull in his own ears.

Hermione seems to lose the fire of her own indignation and shifts her posture to a less aggressive stance. “Not yet,” she says. “I was sort of hoping he might be my Christmas present to myself.” She looks up with a cheeky grin.

“It is Christmas,” Draco says, feeling stupid and like he’s been left out of someone’s cunning plan. She can’t possibly mean…

“It is,” she affirms. “All day.” Her smile has gone soft and she approaches gently, like he’s an unbroken colt. “I tried to talk to you all night, you know. Whenever I looked for you, you had vanished or you were with Theo. I wanted to dance with you,” she finishes.

“You seemed otherwise occupied,” he responds, letting a little pout slip back in. Hadn’t she been in the arms of various wizards throughout the night?

“Well, I wasn’t about to just stand around while you scowled at me. Honestly I thought you were offended to find out about me and Ron from someone else. Apparently I was mistaken.”

“No one told me,” he says and immediately knows it was an idiotic and useless statement. “Obviously,” he amends.

She takes a step closer and Draco doesn’t back away, anticipating the feel of warmth from her skin, remembering the wet and welcoming texture of her lips. “It just happened Thursday. I told Harry I wanted to tell you myself, but then you were such a shite all night, I thought maybe he told you anyway. Ron and I… it hasn’t been working for a long time and we both knew it. His eye was wandering, you see, and I knew we were in trouble when it made me feel… relieved. Made me feel justified.”

“Justified?” He parrots, swallowing hard.

“Justified that my own attentions had wandered a long time ago.” She’s right in front of him now and lays the flat of her hand against his chest. “And I thought, maybe, my affections might be returned.”

“Returned?”

She laughs then, smiling up at him. “I feel like you’re having trouble keeping up. Are my affections returned, Draco?” Her face goes serious again and she tips up on her toes as she winds her arms around his neck. “Please say yes,” she entreats, eyes pleading and warm.

Draco lunges forward, wrapping his arms around her back and pulling her body against him, nearly lifting her off the floor. Her leg pops like a romantic heroine just as he crashes his mouth hard against hers, noting her whimper of relief. This kiss is nothing like the last. He can’t kiss her hard enough, deep enough, rough enough to convey how much he wants this. How long he has wanted this.

He pulls back finally, with reluctance but thinking there is more that needs said. “Does Weasley know?”

Hermione meets his eyes and he sees delight dancing in her irises. She clucks her tongue and licks her lips. “Draco… everyone knows,” and she laughs softly at his expression. “I’ve had to fend off Harry for months, asking his intrusive questions. Ron said he just wants us to be happy… well, and that he’s going to ask out that little tart in Ministry Accounting with the long legs. Even Severus accused me of ‘mooning like a school girl’ at you last week at the Potion Regulation conference.”

‘Dumbfounded’ would be an appropriate word to describe him in that moment. Draco feels quite apt in thinking that all his Christmases have come early. In fact, spoiled boy that he is, he could care less as to what else the day has in store. He sweeps her up once again and they don’t come up for air for a very long time.

“So can I have my present?”

He’s momentarily confused, looking down at the beautiful witch beneath him. When did they make it to the bed?

“Present?”

She laughs again. “You’re adorable when you’re unsure. My present, silly. The one I got for myself… you.”

“Oh!” Eloquent is not in Draco’s grasp today, it seems. “Right… I mean, yes. That is, I’m yours, Hermione. Fuck, I already was,” he says with equal parts realizing and divulging. “I think I’ve loved you for a very long time.” She whimpers at that and kisses him sweetly.

Draco tries to reclaim some semblance of charm then and asks with a grin, “So does that mean I’m off the hook for a gift this year? What did you get me?”

She smiles a wicked grin of her own and leads his hand up her thigh and beneath her rumpled skirt. At the apex of her legs, he feels what seems to be a satin bow tied around her hips and absolutely nothing else.

“Happy Christmas, Draco.”

“For me,” he asks, letting his fingertips dance across her skin. “I do have a gift for you, of course; in the other room. Some book you wanted-“

“Draco!” She smacks lightly at his chest. “You’re not supposed to tell!”

He continues through the interruption, “but I believe I just thought of something else I could give you instead.” Without hesitation, Draco moves down her body and slides her gown up her thighs. Any further protests about her ruined surprise die on her tongue as soon as Draco’s mouth finds his prize.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Happy Christmas, Mother. Father.”

Narcissa and Lucius are waiting, slightly impatiently, for Draco to make his appearance. The Ministry party did run on awfully late, and, yet, they found ample time to sleep and be ready for their traditional Christmas tea. Lucius is prepared to scold his child, heedless of the fact the boy is now a man, when any chastising flies from his thoughts.

Draco is standing in the doorway with one hand in his pocket and the other lightly touching the back of an incredibly casual Hermione Granger. Her mass of curls is unruly at best, her face is washed clean of make-up, and her comfortable-looking jumper and silk pants positively reek of transfiguration magic.

Exchanging a look with his wife, Lucius clears his throat and greets the pair. “Good afternoon, son. And, Miss Granger, what a pleasant surprise.”

To anyone else, he might seem a little put out, but Lucius is secretly the happiest wizard in the world (with the possible exception of his son, who is glowing like a witch with child).

“Would it be alright with you both that I’ve invited Hermione to spend tea with us?”

“Traditionally, this is a family occasion-“ Lucius begins, not really serious, but Narcissa jumps in anyway.

“Oh, pish, Lucius, don’t be ridiculous. Hermione, darling, of course, you’re more than welcome to join us. Why, we already think of you as family. You see Draco more than both of us combined.” There is a twinkle in her eye. Lucius does love to see his wife happy.

“Did you both enjoy the festivities?”

It’s all very polite and civil as the younger generation recounts their evenings, leaving out some choice moments. Tea flows and little cakes are reduced to crumbs on the table between them.

Miss Granger, very familiar now with the Malfoy family after so many years of friendship with Draco, falls in to comfortable conversation with ease. There is laughter and joy in the house, and Lucius is aware that his family had little of either for quite some time, very much due to his own choices. It has only been in the most recent years that he has seen his son evolve from a broken and morose boy to a dynamic and confident young man. The vibrant witch by his side, stealing glances at him and subtly touching him when she thinks no one is looking, has most definitely been the source of Draco’s transformation.

It is nearly time for their Christmas dinner when Lucius reminds his family they have one last tradition to uphold. Hermione has not been a part of it in the past, but she is aware nonetheless. Before they enjoy the gifts they have bought one another, each member of the family shares their fondest wish; their hope for whatever bauble or surprise that might be under the tree.

Lucius goes first, naming a particular pair of gemstone cufflinks he has been eyeing. He is relatively sure his wife has made the purchase, and he watches her for confirmation. Stone faced as ever, she gives nothing away. “You’ll just have to wait and see what’s in your packages, Darling.”

Draco glances quickly at the witch sharing the small sofa with him and offers a sickeningly sentimental, “I already have everything in the world I need. I’m not sure what I could ever want that I don’t yet possess.”

Offering him sappy doe eyes in return, the Granger girl agrees with his comment. Eventually, after what Lucius deems a very drawn out moment of romantic discomfort, the young woman turns to Narcissa and asks pleasantly, “And for you, Missus Malfoy? What are you most hoping for this year?”

Taking a dainty sip of tea, she answers, perfectly serious, “Grandchildren. Merlin willing, you’ve already started some attempts. And about time, too, Draco. I thought I raised you with more gumption.”

Three sets of mouths hang open, and they all continue to stare as Narcissa rises and smooths her skirt. “Well then, I’d say it’s about time for dinner, yes?” She sashays from the room and the two young lovers shift their gazes to Lucius.

All pretense of ignorance gone, he chuckles at them and moves to follow his wife. “What, did you think you were subtle? Come on then. Let’s celebrate this holiday as a family. The first of many, unless I miss my guess.” Lucius winks, which only serves to make their mouths drop open even more.

He finds Narcissa in the corridor waiting for him. Usually stoic and even of expression, she wears a broad grin. His wife whispers, “I do so love that look on his face when he’s been caught. So like the little boy we raised when he’d been naughty.”

Lucius slips his arm around her and they walk toward the formal dining room, assuming their son and his intended will follow. “I’d wager the next event to grace this manor will be a wedding for the ages.” He looks down at his happy wife, then glances back, finding his son walking behind them, his arm wrapped around Hermione Granger. She is tucked into his side and gazing up at him adoringly.

“Happy Christmas, Cissa,” he says quietly, reaching for her hand and twining their fingers together.

“The happiest,” she agrees, but Lucius thinks she’s wrong. They will only be better from here.


End file.
